


inhuman

by valiantlybold



Series: to be loved [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eldritch, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantlybold/pseuds/valiantlybold
Summary: And maybe Jaskier is not loved.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: to be loved [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659100
Comments: 26
Kudos: 476





	inhuman

**Author's Note:**

> again, just vomiting words here, no plans, no edits, i die on this hill

Jaskier is not human.

_Jaskier is not human._

Jaskier.

_Is._

****Not.** **

**_ **Human.** _ **

That is plain to see now.

Instead, he is the dark horror that lives in a hollow in the rocks in a forest by the sea.

He is made of the void, which is shaped into a body that feels both right and wrong. So many limbs like tentacles, too many eyes to count, a bottomless maw for a mouth, and no heart where a heart should be.

He hungers. He starves.

But even when he eats, _rabbits and birds and bugs and leaves and roots and deer and worms and spiders and boars,_ he is never full because of the maw that he has is bottomless now and so, his hunger knows no end, so he decides to not eat at all.

He wishes he could turn into his human self again but when he tries, nothing comes of it, he still remains this awful, void-made self that he hates, so he decides to not try at all.

He tries to think of other things than all that he has lost by then; his dear friend and love, his Geralt, his shining Witcher, his perfect match in strangeness, and when he thinks of this, he _aches,_ so he decides to not think at all.

He is the dark horror that lives in a hollow in the rocks in a forest by the sea, and he guards his home from those intruding humans that wish to disturb him, and when they see him, most of them cry out in fear, they wail in agony simply by laying eyes on him, and those that are weak, those that are frail, they lay their eyes on him and they die of his horror.

So he decides to not guard his home at all.

He is a monster now, he knows, but he does not want to become a true monster, a killer, a murderer; he hides in his hollow in the rocks in the forest by the sea. Lost as is to his love, he does not wish to become just another monster for his Witcher to hunt.

But there are no doubt stories already. Stories of the great, unknown beast that hides among the trees. Witcher will come, he is sure.

But he does not mind.

He is, after all, no longer human. And if he is not human, then he must be a monster. So when a Witcher comes, he won’t fight them, he won’t resist them, he will allow them to slay him, because he doesn’t want to be the monster that he is. He hates what he is. He hates this body. He hates it.

He hopes, he only hopes that the Witcher that comes, that that Witcher is not Geralt.

He would fall on Geralt’s sword if it came to it; if that was the only option.

But he hopes he won’t have to. He hopes it will be a different Witcher, one he doesn’t know, one he can look at without the void where his heart is supposed to be hurting.

He knows he must die, but he doesn’t want to look at Geralt’s perfect face as he goes. He doesn’t want to see the disgust, the hate, the anger in Geralt’s eyes as he dies. He doesn’t want that to be the last thing he sees.

He wants to remember Geralt with a smile, or as much of a smile as Geralt is usually willing to give; a crooked smirk, a smug grin maybe. Either way, he just wants to remember him how he was _before_ all this, before Jaskier became what he is now, before he became this disgusting beast.

So he sits in his hollow in the rocks in the forest by the sea, and he waits for the Witchers to come for his life.

And a Witcher does come.

A Witcher comes to the sea, into the forest, to the rocks, to the hollow, and finds Jaskier there, a writhing ball of void-made tentacles and eyes and limbs and a bottomless maw.

A Witcher comes, with a familiar scent and a familiar walk and a familiar shape, shining like he always does, white hair like a halo around his head when hit by the gentle sunlight.

A Witcher comes, and the sight of him makes Jaskier wail, because _this is what he didn’t want, this is what he feared, this is what he loathed to think of,_ and he cowers against the rocks because any Witcher could kill him, he’d fall on any sword but Geralt’s, he’d die by any hand but Geralt’s.

“Jaskier.”

He tries to drown him out with crying wails, doesn’t want to hear whatever awful words he may have to say now, doesn’t want to hear his no longer existing heart breaking inside him with every word his Witcher says.

“Jaskier, please.”

He twists and turns and rolls, limbs twisting in knots, as though to get away.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

He cries out when hands reach for him, sinking into his viscous body, pulling back and trying again to touch him until they are petting his roiling, boiling body, and when he looks, Geralt sits with him, halo glowing and he must be an angel, he doesn’t smile but he doesn’t look angry either, he is calm and Jaskier knows him, knows that neutral face is betrayed by the softness in his eyes.

“I’ve been looking for you, bard. I’m sorry. For… For everything. For…the things I said.”

And maybe Jaskier is not loved.

But at least he is not hated.


End file.
